


Chrome

by bow_eros



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, At-Birth Disability, Bottom!Jack, Drinking to Cope, Grooming, Iron Man!Jack, M/M, Mention of claustrophobia, Oral Sex, Prosthetic Arm, Relationship Negotiation, Rhys is 19, Second Chapter is Pure Bottom-Jack smut, Spider-Man!Rhys, blowjob, marvel AU, mention of PTSD, predatory behavior, so enjoy that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-10 02:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18929854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bow_eros/pseuds/bow_eros
Summary: Iron Man!Handsome Jack and Spider-Man!Rhys. Rhys is much younger, and Jack has a little issue with that. Apparently not that much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i edited this a bunch, there still might be spelling or grammatical issues. sorry it jumps around a bit! i suck at keeping to a linear story!

Jack saw Spider-Man for the first time up close as he was getting his morning coffee. Up in the penthouse of the Avengers née Stark Tower, pouring a cup from the all-too old fashioned coffee maker, he sees Spider-Man standing on the balcony, peering in through the windows with his hands cupped around his face to block the sunlight.

He mustn’t have seen Jack there, otherwise he knew the skittish arachnid-wannabe would be darting for his life, but who’s to say? Maybe Spidey has more cajones than Jack pins him for.

Jack leans against the counter, watching as the kid - he’s gotta be a kid, no  _ adult _ would have a physique like that, long legs that he looked like he was growing into more than anything - took off his backpack and pulled out… a sketchbook. A pencil bag filled with a few helpful gadgets, like a mini ruler, a compass, mechanical pencils, a neat little case of charcoal. A little artist, apparently, though Jack doesn't entirely understand the desire to use such archaic tools when the human race has created and amassed a metric butt-load of technology.

Spider-Man slowly sits down with his back against the window, pulls out his phone, and rucks up his mask so that it sat more like a beanie than what it was meant for in the first place.

Jack curiously wanders closer, blinking. What was it, 7 in the morning? What kid would be up this early? God knows he’d much rather be face-first in his bed right now.

He’s watching from over Spider-Man’s shoulder, not looking at the kid’s face. He knows there’s a level of privacy that needs to be maintained, and it’d be cheap to just look at Spider-Man’s face while he didn’t know Jack was there.

I mean, being Iron Man has its perks, but that seems like a cheap shot. One that even Jack wouldn't take.

He waits for a few minutes, watching the kid slowly start to sketch…  _ something. _ He has to think about it, look at the pencil strokes and measurements before he realizes that it’s some kind of wrist attachment. Mechanical parts that slide together… projectiles… oh!

Jack sips his coffee. The kid’s designing new web shooters. Huh!

He knew that Spider-Man had to be some flavor of brilliant to be able to pull off the stunts he’s doing, not all of it can come from the legendary bite of a spider, but he didn’t know he designed his own gear. He expected a team behind it.

Jack can see some of the kid’s features from behind. The slope of his cheekbone, the color of his hair, though he tries not to commit it to memory. Again,  _ cheap. _ If Spider-Man wants to introduce himself to the Avengers, then so be it - but it has to be on his terms. Jack has reached out (kind of, it was a Twitter post) to Spidey wanting to bring him on, but got no replies.

He looks young. It kind of gives him a swelling hope in his chest knowing that there might be a future for the next generation. Given the shit that’s been going down recently, he hopes there’s a future for  _ anyone. _ Superheroes, vigilantes, villains… 

It’s too early to be thinking about this shit. He glances at his watch - 7:20. It’s the first time in a while that Jack hasn’t been fiddling with something at the same, focused on the kid’s sketches and slight movements, even going so far as to do calculations on his phone with the help of his sketchpad. Velocity and weight and such, which Jack wants to help with when he gets stuck, but revealing himself at this point would likely wig the kid out. It’s refreshing to not have to feel like he needs to be doing something with his hands.

The kid rises to his feet, setting down his supplies and holding them down with his toe as he stretches.

Jack almost whistles, cup raised to his lips to drink the dregs of his coffee as he watches Spidey stretch those long legs of his. He’ll be a looker, that’s for sure. Or is a looker - he really wants to know how old he really is. 

Of course, that thought doesn’t last long. He knows this person. Rhys,  _ Rhys Strongford, _ one of the top performing students he’s paying for college for. A program that Rhys got into with flying colors, specifically made for prodigies in electronics and engineering, graciously helped with the University of New York. Rhys turns around to peer in through the window again, hands coming up to shield the light from his eyes, but stops abruptly when he sees Jack standing there.

They stand there for a minute, both of them in at least a bit of shock, before Rhys is scrambling his things into his backpack in a few moments flat and slipping beneath the lowest railing, scaling down the building. Or jumping to his death. Jack definitely knows the feeling.

 

\--

 

Rhys is shaking, hiding below the balcony with his backpack hooked over his shoulders, the bag pressed to his chest. It’s hanging open, his sketchbook and pens precariously hanging out of it, and he carefully stuffs everything back into place, zipping it up, trying to bring his breathing to a standstill.

Jack. Jack Stark.  _ Mr. _ Jack Stark - fucking  _ Iron Man _ ,  _ whatever _ , basically the guy paying for his education, his idol, and--

“He knows I’m Spider-Man,” Rhys breathes. “O-oh,  _ shit. _ ”

He stays there for a moment, practically frozen in place, his mind rushes through possibilities. This could mean the end of his educational career. His whole world rode on if he could get through his degree, get into some nice post-grad, start working is way up to a position where he could make enough money to comfortably do the things he wanted - help his aunt out, his cousins, his friends. Maybe make a cool gadgets on the way.

This threw a wrench into all of that. Rhys curled his knees up a little more, propping himself up against the window of the Avengers tower and wishing he could disappear.

 

\--

 

He was expecting a stern text, or an email, or perhaps a public humiliation, like some modern walk of shame where people would throw rotten tomatoes (or avocados, it is the _ 21st _ century, not the 17th) at him, but what he didn’t expect to happen was for Jack to show up at his door. When he opens his dorm door the next day, he clams up to see Jack standing, chewing on some gum, hands in his pockets.

Jack watches him, eyes scoping him from head to toe in a moment, no words.

“... You gonna let me in, or are we gonna talk about this out here?”

It takes another few moments, but Rhys moves back, out of the way, and Jack comes inside. There are two security guards behind him, which is surprising at first until Rhys remembers that there’s been quite a fight in New York recently, and maybe some backup might be needed. The man who looks down at him is a grizzled older fellow who Rhys doesn’t want to make eye contact with more than he needs to. He closes the door behind Jack and will turn.

“Take a seat, princess,” Jack says, waving his hand as he’s looking around Rhys’ dorm.

Rhys does, as offered - as if it’s  _ Jack’s _ place to tell him that he can sit in his own dorm room, though after some thought, it’s likely not out of the question, seeing as who’s paying for said dorm - and will ball his hands into fists on his knees, sitting as still as he can.

There are schematics on the wall - additions to pieces that Rhys was building, architectural designs, ships and engines, all sorts of stuff that Jack would be particularly interested in viewing and perhaps modeling if it were his own, but he notices something on Rhys’ desk, behind where Rhys is sitting, that catches his eye more than anything.

Rhys is deathly quiet as Jack approaches him, starting to feel anxiety build up in his chest. Jack reaches forward, and Rhys closes his eyes with a gasp before his sketchpad is being taken off the desk’s surface. Jack leafs through it casually.

“There it is,” Jack says, low. He’ll turn the sketchpad over on itself, holding it out to Rhys. “Explain it to me.”

It’s the rough draft for his web shooters; he hadn’t been willing to open up to that page, like the moment up on the Avengers tower would jump right back out through the page. Rhys takes the sketchbook in his hand, setting it on his lap. He’ll spread his right hand out on the page with a breath. “Um…”

“Actually,” Jack says, and will scoop up Rhys’ hand. “Tell me more about this.”

His prosthetic whirs, the motor stirring as Rhys clenches his fist, looking at Jack like a scared puppy. 

“... M-Mr. Stark, sir, I-I can explain everything--” Rhys starts, breathless, but Jack tuts.

“You can start with your arm, there, Strongford. C’mon, now, I don’t have all day for you, kiddo.” Jack flips his hand to look at the palm, wrenching open the fingers - much to the dismay of the servos in his wrist and knuckles - and glancing through the mostly-opaque plastic. “It’s changed since the last I’ve seen it, what’d you do to it?”

Well, it's been nearly a year since Jack saw it last. No wonder it’s changed. Rhys is still a bit at a loss, mouth opening and closing a few times before he starts. “N-new plastic, this time with an inner casing that handles more impact. The joints have new servos, with better flexibility, durability, strength. The motor and battery got an update, n-now being able to be sustained for 75 hours without major use… 44 if used in physical activities, s-such as… sports, exercise…”

Jack’s eyes flick up, and Rhys feels a chill down his spine.

“Swinging through New York?” Jack offers, tone a little smug. The edge of his lips quirk up, and Rhys feels a simultaneous jolt of fear and anger.

“... Maybe,” Rhys whispers.

His arm had been the whole reason he had gotten into Jack’s program. The whole reason he got to go into Oscorp, the whole reason he was in this mess. All because of a birth defect! 

“Mr. Stark,” Rhys’ tone is a little more level, even if he still feels jittery, “I-I can explain what I was doing on the tower yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?”Jack stands up tall, crossing his arms before he’s turning to look more at Rhys’ blueprints. “Go right on ahead, sweetheart, I’m all ears.”

Rhys’ mouth opens and closes again, and Jack glances to him.

“I said  _ go ahead, _ Rhys. Actually-- Rhysie, why don’t you tell me  _ how _ you got up there, hm? What about that fancy costume you were wearing, what’s that about?”

Rhys’ hands curl into his pants nervously, and he’ll gape for a few moments. “I-I’m Spider-Man, Mr. Stark,” he whispers.

There’s a tense moment--

“No  _ shit, _ princess,” Jack actually laughs at that. “And when were you gonna tell me this, exactly? Do you know how badass that is, that I have  _ the _ Spider-Man in my program?  _ Sheesh, _ kid, you couldn’t have come out any sooner?”

“I-I didn’t do it on  _ purpose _ , exactly,” Rhys says - he’s halfway bitter, halfway relieved. He’s glad that Jack’s not mad, at least not outwardly. Stark isn’t known to be the most stable of people. “A-and it’s-- it’s dangerous! You of all people know that, y-you don’t want to endanger your friends, your family…”

Jack hums, “Sure, sure,” he waves his hand. “What’s it gonna take?”

Rhys blinks. “Excuse me? Take to what?”

“To have you on the team?” Jack snorts, like it’s obvious. “I mean, look at you. You’re a frickin’ genius. Two years into college, still goin’ strong, making a goddamn  _ cybernetic arm _ that works like,  _ flawlessly _ with your big, beautiful think meat--”

“Ew,” Rhys mumbles.

“--what’s it gonna take to bring you onto the Stark team?” Jack says.

_ That’s  _ what catches him. He-- Rhys thought that Jack meant the  _ Avengers. _ And while that’s something he also wants, this is--

“Sorry?” Rhys blinks, looking taken aback. Jack just tugged a rug out from beneath his think-meat’s feet.

“Throw out a number, Rhysie, I’m sure I’ll match it,” Jack says with an overconfident smile. “You scratch my back with all your cool tech, I scratch yours by giving you enough money to put three roofs over your head.”

“ _ Wait-- _ ” Rhys sits up a little more. Regaining balance, blinking hard as his brain recalibrates--

“Do you want a house? I’ll get you a house, I’ll get you a  _ mansion. _ Is it your family? I’ll get  _ them _ a mansion--”

“ _ Mr. Stark! _ ” Rhys doesn’t  _ shout, _ but it’s close enough where he feels his stomach flip, knowing that Jack  _ doesn’t _ like to be shouted at. (Hypocrite.) Jack does pause, however, and it gives him a moment to place his thoughts, figure out his words. “... I-I… don’t want your money,” he says, carefully, though some part of Rhys kind of regrets saying that. “What I want is to finish my education, and that my family’s safe. I-if any word gets out that I’m…” he glances to his sketchpad, running his fingers over the pencil marks on the paper, “my family will get hurt. I don’t want that to happen.”

Jack looks down at him with a curious tick in his eyebrow. “Sure,” he says. “Not that I was gonna pull you out of school, kiddo, you’re passing all your classes with flying colors. Kind of a wonder, looking at what you do in your spare time…”

Rhys doesn’t know if that’s a compliment or not, but some part of him does swell under the front half of the statement. He is doing well in his classes.

“Any other demands of me?” Jack says with a smile. “Or is that it? Keep you in school, superhero business is under wraps so your friends are safe? Seems like you’re selling yourself short here, kid.”

Rhys will shake his head. He can’t think of anything, honestly. School will provide enough resources for him to continue his work on his cybernetic arm, working with Mr. Stark is a bit of a   _ engineer’s wet dream _ come to life, and his family stays safe while his identity stays private. “No, sir.”

“It’s a deal, then.” Jack holds out his left hand, which makes Rhys pause for a moment - a sneaky, and a little underhanded, way of communicating a level of distrust, not wanting to shake Rhys’ right, prosthetic hand. Rhys stands, carefully placing his sketchbook back on his desk, and locking grips with Jack with a weary smile. He has a feeling this is going to get sticky, fast.

Jack squeezes slightly tighter than necessary, getting Rhys to grimace. “Now, is it true that you can stick to walls?”

 

\--

 

It is, in fact, true that Rhys can stick to walls. Even without the suit! It’s an extremely interesting experiment to see what he can and can’t stick to, but anything with the ability to gain some kind of static electricity seems to do the trick. Rhys can walk on the ceiling (oh, and how cute it is to see his hair be out of place when he comes down, cheeks slightly flushed), on the walls, on the windows. It’s amazing. Jack loves writing down notes on his tablet to send up into his personal database, ANGEL, and coming up with ideas for the kid’s suit and wrist equipment. It’s a whole new project he can do to overwork himself and stress himself out if it’s not working.

The first few weeks are just getting to know each other’s lab habits, what needs to be stepped over, but it comes kind of naturally. Rhys picks up all of Jack’s errant coffee cups, Jack is put into a rhythm of stepping over cords where they’re hooked up to Rhys’ arm, and they both have trouble putting away lost screws, tools, and organizing things in proper order. (ANGEL helps significantly with that.)

It takes two whole months for Jack to let Rhys start working on one of the Iron Man suits with him - Mark VII, he believes, though he’s lost count. It’s on the file, he doesn’t have to remember shit. 

“Jack,” Rhys is sitting on the couch, crazy-long legs folded beneath him as he’s scrolling on his tablet. “I came up with some more mods we could apply to the suit, I wanted you to look them over.”

It’s early, too early for this. It had been a long, late night in the lab with Rhys, working on the same suit Rhys was talking about. What is with this kid and getting up so god-damn early? Isn’t it Tuesday - he has  _ class! _

“Did you even sleep?” Jack croaks, pouring himself some coffee. He’s in sweatpants and a Stark-brand t-shirt, fuzzy brown loafers on his feet to keep his toes from freezing.

“Uh,” Rhys’ voice warbles.

_ Ah. _ That’s how he does it.

“I had some business to do this morning, s-so I just… stayed up.” Rhys turns to look at Jack, who’s sipping his coffee, holding it between both hands. He looks like he’s about to keel over. Not a morning person, it seems. Though, Rhys isn’t either.

“When was the last time you slept?” Jack  _ almost _ sounds concerned, if it weren’t for the frustrated knit on his brow.

“Yesterday,” Rhys turns back toward the tablet. He can already feel a pout starting to form on his mouth, and he knows how Jack feels about his pouting. “A-about noon. I had a nap.”

“Y’should sleep, kiddo,” Jack huffs. “Seriously. I get the whole--  _ stay up forever _ deal when you’re young, but it seriously messes with you later on.”

“I have two tests later today, a-and I really want to--”

“ _ Ah-ah! _ ” Jack nips  _ that _ one in the bud. Rhys’ shoulders hitch up like he’s frightened, and a slight ache worms its way into his heart, something that feels similar to guilt. “I’m gonna stop you right there - go take a nap.  _ Now. _ I want you fresh-faced and beautiful before you go do something as important as a  _ test, _ young man.”

Jack comes over to corral him off the couch, waving his hands. “C’mon! Let’s go.”

Rhys doesn’t look appalled, but it’s pretty damn close. He stands up, holding the tablet to his chest. “I-I know my limits, you know! I’m an adult!” he says.

“Sure,” Jack glances at him dismissively, gonna walk (read: shuffle) after him, bringing him to the elevator. Rhys can easily get away, but seems fine just to be backed up into the tight space, Jack joining him, and pushing the button to the level below. Still with coffee in hand.

“I do!” Rhys scoffs. “I’ve done this a lot!”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t done this with  _ me _ around. You also have like, two full-time jobs,  _ Spidey-Rhys _ , so it’s time to get a move on. Your health is important.” Jack reaches over, gonna flick Rhys’ nose, smiling a little. The coffee must be strong today if Jack’s smiling so early.

Rhys pouts so pretty. Lower lip sticking out, crossing his arms over his chest, fingers in his armpits like he’s trying to warm them up. Jack just watches him, smiling as the elevator goes down. “Pout all you like, pumpkin, I’m not letting you walk around like a sleep-deprived zombie. What were you gonna do, sleep in your car before your test?”

More pouting, this time turning his body so he can prop himself up against the wall of the elevator, and it only confirms Jack’s theory. He laughs this time. “Ohh, Rhysie, you remind me so much of myself.”

Rhys waits until Jack is taking another sip of his coffee before he turns to look at him, pout having dissipated a bit. “Oh? How so?”

“Well,” Jack looks up as the elevator  _ dings! _ “You’re smart, and pretty, and have a shit time keeping yourself in line. You can’t do great things when you’re screwing with your natural systems, Rhys. Sleeping, eating, even taking a crap is all integral to how well you perform on a day to day basis. You think I came up with all the cool shit I did when I was running on, what, two hours of sleep and an energy drink?”

“You made the suit under extreme circumstances,” Rhys says, and that does make Jack consider for a moment.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t my best work.” Jack turns, walking backwards as he’s leading Rhys down the hall - it’s a whole floor of a penthouse suite. Made for quick living, or crashing when it’s important to stay nearby. The fridge isn’t stocked with anything perishable, nor the cupboards. “I’m talking like this thing,” he taps his own chest, the arc reactor. “I’m talkin’ being the best of the best, Rhysie. You don’t perform like you’re supposed to if you’re not shittin’ on a schedule.”

Rhys’ face twists into something that  _ screams _ “ew.”

“Or sleeping. Whatever.” Jack rolls his eyes.

“Maybe it’s because you’ve had more practice,” Rhys says. “Because you’re older, you’ve had more practice to learn how your body works. Maybe mine doesn’t work like that!”

Jack levels him with a look. “You’re not gettin’ out of taking a nap.”

“ _ Come on! _ ”

 

\--

 

Rhys is out like a light before Jack can get back with the chamomile tea he had brewing for Rhys. (“Chamomile always puts me to sleep,” Jack assures, though Rhys looks like he’s about to throw a tantrum rivalling a two-year-old’s.) Curled up, half-under the blankets with a pillow tucked between his shoulder and his neck, already drooling. 

Jack snorts, and will dim the lights a little more, closing the door behind him. “‘Doesn’t work like that’ my ass.”

 

\--

 

“Try this on,” Jack says suddenly, holding out a bracelet. Rhys stops through his presentation on the new suit adjustments - used to Jack not looking, or even not paying attention, honestly - to look at Jack, glaring.

“I was saying something,” Rhys says, terse.

“And I want you to try this on.” Jack gets up, putting the tool he had been using back in the toolbox on the counter and will walk around the counter so that he can stand next to Rhys, holding out his hand with the bracelet in his other hand. “C’mon, Rhysie, I don’t got all day.”

With a roll of his eyes and a barely-contained annoyed growl, he flops his left hand into Jack’s, who gently adjusts the size of the bracelet on his wrist.

… Rhys can’t help but notice how delicate he’s being, eyebrows furrowed slightly, eyes narrowed as he fiddles with the jewelry. It can’t be a friendship bracelet or something like that - a child of the 70’s, sure, but not exactly the hippy-dippy type. Everyone knew that Handsome Jack was a bit of a prick, even if he was brilliant. And handsome. And good with the ladies. And dudes!

… and also extremely delicate when working with technical machinery that was now covering Rhys’ organic arm with nanobots with the press of a button. 

The bracelet seamlessly aligns with the rest of the tech, but Jack isn’t focused on that - he’s twisting and turning Rhys’ arm, looking at it with the same, calculating glare. “Shit,” he grumbles, flicking the metal. A part of it is ‘glitching,’ refusing to cover a part of Rhys’ arm.

“What?” Rhys doesn’t mean to sound breathless, but he is. He has brand new, untested Stark Industries tech on him without warning. Shouldn’t he sign a waiver for this or something? Maybe he did that with his contract. There was a lot of paper there, legal jargon he didn’t get. He probably signed away his legal rights to everything.

Probably.

“Error,” Jack says simply. He’ll grab Rhys’ wrist and pull him to the counter, getting him to sit down with a swanky pull of a bar stool with his foot, getting  _ all _ up in Rhys’ space. He hooks his own arm over Rhys’ so they’re hip to hip, Jack’s right hand doing most of the tech work on the inside of his arm. It’s similar to the way he would work on his own left arm - Rhys’ left arm palm-up, loose and being tinkered on. But just on another person.

With Jack extremely, extremely close. 

Jack’s shoulder was close enough that Rhys can feel its warmth on his skin. His bicep is tucked beneath Jack’s upper arm, against his ribs, and he can smell his deodorant. Clean, sharp. He’s trying not to make noise, but the flush on his cheeks is proof enough that he’s probably liking this - Jack’s scent, his warmth, his  _ attention _ \- more than he should.

Good thing Jack’s not paying attention to his face right now.

However, after about five minutes, he does have to say something.

“Jack..?” he murmurs. 

The rumble of a hum is all he gets in return.

“Can I have my arm back?”

“No.” Jack reaches forward, grabbing a different screwdriver - smaller this time, how small do they get? - from the toolbox. “Busy.”

Jack’s shoulder is in the way, he can’t even see what he’s doing. But it seems like he’s taken the faceplate off of the thing, tinkering inside. Rhys might be able to help if he could  _ see. _

He’ll lean forward, having to press his cheek to Jack’s arm to be able to peer around. Indeed, the faceplate is off, but Jack glances at him with a frown, catching his attention before he can assess the problem. 

“What?” 

“Curious,” Rhys postures, squaring his shoulders a little - even if it makes the arm under Jack’s control shift. Jack makes an offended noise.

“As always. Don’t move. Delicate work.” And he stuffs his nose back into his work. Rhys will frown, glare - that fluster gone, now that Jack’s personality has shone through again - and settle in to watch Jack work.

It’s always been a dream to work with Iron Man himself. Now here he was, luxuriating being his guinea pig. Well, luxuriating is probably not the word he would use, especially when something in the bracelet clicks loud enough - some kind of circuit reconnecting - and Jack drops the screwdriver with a yelp.

“ _ Ouch! _ Fff- _ fuck. _ ” Jack backs up, stuffing his fingers in his mouth with a growl. “Jesus Christ.”

“ _ Rhys _ is fine,” the younger man smiles a little, even wider when Jack glares at him for the joke, but finally has room where he can pull the bracelet up into closer range, looking at the mechanical aspect of it. “Are you sure it’s not a programming problem?”

“Wh-- _ what? _ ” Jack looks  _ mad _ at that. 

“Of  _ course _ it’s-- do you know who you’re talking to? I’m like, the  _ God _ of programming, kid. Don’t--” he’ll shake out his hand with a gruff sound, glancing at them. His skin still tingles. “Don’t be stupid, stupid. It’s not the frickin’ programming.”

Alright, so, yeah, Jack  _ is _ the God of programming, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make mistakes.

“I’m serious. Nothing in here looks like it’s wrong.” Rhys picks up the screwdriver and slowly moves parts until he can see the tiny circuit board inside. Shakes his head. “Check the program.”

“ _ Nothing _ is wrong with the program for my own goddamn--” Jack’s flushed red. “ANGEL, run diagnostics on the Spider suit.”

“ _ Yes, sir, _ ” ANGEL’s voice comes over the intercom system, and there’s a few moments before there’s a soft noise, again. “ _ There is a problem, sir. _ ”

Rhys grins - still slowly coming to the realization that this project was called the  _ Spider suit _ \- and Jack turns bright red.

 

\--

 

“How old’re you?” Jack hiccups the words, and Rhys leans over the back of the couch, looking down at him with a frown.

“Nineteen,” Rhys says. He hands him a glass of water, and Jack squints at it.

“I said scotch, baby girl.”

If that pet name sends shivers up his spine, Jack doesn’t have to know about it.

“And I say water,” Rhys says, his tone light but stern. “We should get you to bed.”

Jack grins, and will put the glass on his chest, humming and looking up at the ceiling. “Mmh. I’dunno, sweetheart. I like it right here. Warm. Alcohol nearby…”

“C’mon, old man.” Rhys says, gently putting his hand on Jack’s arm - does he flex? - and shaking him a little. 

“M’not old,” Jack grumbles. He sounds grumpy, but does as he’s told anyway, sitting up on the couch and getting to his feet, woozy. 

He doesn’t usually drink, not when he knows Rhys is going to be around. Something must’ve come up.

Rhys comes around the end, gonna carefully lead Jack along with the promise of warmth in his own bed, though Jack really, really doesn’t wanna get in the elevator. Rhys is holding it open by waving his hand through the sensors.

“S’small,” Jack huffs. “I don’t wanna.”

Rhys blinks. “It’s just a couple floors, Jack. Come on, we’re almost there.”

“No,” Jack says, firmly, sounding more sober than he really is. “M’not going.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I said  _ no, _ dummy.” Jack scowls disapprovingly, turning back around to walk away, back towards the couch. 

Rhys catches him by the arm, and Jack shrugs out of it with ease. “ _ No! _ ” Jack growls this time. “Rhys, ‘m not going in the elevator.”

“Down the stairs, then,” Rhys will grab his wrist, though he’s being gentle. 

“I’m too drunk for stairs.” Adamant, jaw set.

“I’ll carry you.”

Rhys doesn't look like he’s joking. It makes Jack blink, squinting curiously.

“Y’can’t pick me up,” he sounds suspicious. “You’re tiny.”

“You wanna bet?”

Rhys  _ can  _ pick Jack up, with  _ ease, _ Jack finds, realizing he’s about two feet off the ground being carried on Rhys’ back as they head down the emergency staircase. Super strength. Right.

“Fuckin’  _ nineteen, _ ” Jack grumbles, still holding the glass of water in his hand, arms slung around Rhys’ shoulders haphazardly. 

“Language,” Rhys chides, sarcastically.

“ _ Shut up. _ ”

“Why’d you ask?” 

“Ask what?” Jack mumbles. His head feels so heavy. He’s glad he didn’t have to go in the elevator. That would’ve been a trip to remember - a side of him he doesn’t want Rhys to see.

“How old I am,” Rhys hefts him up a little bit more, fingers easily gripping the backs of Jack’s thighs.

“Your legs,” Jack says. He brings the water up to his mouth, sipping on it and immediately feeling the cool water soothe some of the heat in his bones. The anxiousness tied up, hostage in his chest. “They’re long. Wondering if you were growin’ into them or what.”

“W-well, yeah, I guess.” Rhys’ cheeks turn a bit pink. “Why were you looking at my legs?”

“Who  _ wouldn’t _ look at your legs? They’re-- you’ve got legs for  _ days, _ pumpkin. Hate to be a creep - you know me, I-I’m never one to be a  _ creep _ \- but even when you were in high school, I knew you were gonna be pretty. B-but I’m-- I’m not tryin’ta groom you or somethin’, I don’t wanna make you like me because I’m  _ me, _ I want you-- I want you to like Handsome Jack and Jack Stark separate, y’feel me?” Though probably both of them are thinking which one is which,  _ Handsome Jack _ versus  _ Jack Stark _ , where are the differences, what’s the line between them.

Rhys stops on the landing, glancing up at Jack from over his shoulder as best as he can before he, pointedly, stays quiet. Jack takes it as a sign to continue sticking his foot in his mouth.

“I-I mean, if you’re-- you’re not into guys, I get it, I mean, I didn’t know until I was… twenty-- five? Twenty-seven? Rhysie, baby, when was the Stark Industries convention founded? The one in Seattle, with the-- the car powered by-- y’know, n’stuff?”

“Ninety-seven,” Rhys answers diligently. Almost three years before he was born.

“I was--  _ twenty-six. _ Yeah, I didn’t know I liked dudes, too, ‘til I was twenty-six. So I get it, ‘yer still…  _ young, _ and still  _ pretty, _ not  _ messed up, _ ‘nd stuff, and--”

“Jack?” Rhys’ voice is quiet, but it seems to cause Jack to tremble into silence, like he’s scared.

“What’sit, princess?” 

Jack’s voice is low, and directly in Rhys’ ear. They both know it’s an uncomfortable, tense moment, with untold emotions hanging in the air. It’s a pregnant pause.

“I think you should shut up now,” Rhys says, glancing back at him.

“Mmh,” Jack tilts his glass, closing his eyes. “Think you’re right.”

 

\--

 

He won’t lay down until Rhys joins him, which is kind of creepy, kind of manipulative, but in the blue light of the city refracting through the windows and onto the hard corners of Jack’s face, it’s hard to say no. Rhys lays down, and Jack will lay about a foot to his right, not touching him, still holding the glass of water, mostly drained.

“Why were you drinking?” Rhys asks. He doesn’t want to sound  _ betrayed, _ but it’s difficult not to. He’s confused. 

“Mmh,” Jack starts. His eyes are closed. “Thinkin’.”

“About what?”

“M’first suit. My grandma. About a lot of shit, pumpkin.”

Rhys is quiet for another few moments. “Drinking doesn’t help with anxiety and depression, Jack.”

Jack’s eyes open, looking around like they’re calibrating before looking at Rhys. His face is expressionless, very neutral.

“I know that,” he says, carefully.

“Then why’d you drink?”

“Hey. I didn’t ask for your opinion on my vices.”

Rhys rolls his eyes, and will sit up, starting to get out of bed. If Jack didn’t want to talk about it, then he was just being a clingy old man. He didn’t want to stick around for that. He might have a crush on the guy, but he’s smart enough to know when he’s fishing (phishing? Ha!) for compliments and comfort. Jack wouldn’t want to hit on a kid like him - or, at least, he shouldn’t.

Jack shifts in bed, laying on his side and looking up at him. “Stay the night--”

“ _ Jack, _ ” Rhys says, sharply, and Jack freezes. “No.”

Jack watches him. “... you could at least take off my shoes.”

“Take off your own shoes,” Rhys says. “Call me in the morning.”

“Rhys…” Jack pushes him up on his elbow, but Rhys is already walking out the door.

 

\--

 

Rhys only gets a flash of relief at first, the way his phone lights up to let him know there’s a police chase happening a few blocks down, something to do with an Oscorp van;  _ something  _ to do so that he doesn’t have to think about this. Jack’s slurring voice, the weight of him on his back, the way he  _ talked _ about Rhys. Anything to get his mind at least a little clear.

He’s never been particularly good about leaving his baggage at the door, however.

 

\--

 

Who knew that fighting a giant, green goblin-monster would get you fucked up? Bruised to hell and back, missing out on his finals, laying in his hospital bed recovering from injuries far more severe than Rhys thought they would be. His mechanical arm rest on the side table, snapped clean in two. So much for the shock padding he put in there. 

He’s good at this whole ‘superhero’ stuff, but maybe he got in over his head. Or not over the shit going  _ through _ his head. Not taking the time to properly get his head in the game, thinking about  _ Stark, _ about  _ Jack, _ and about how he sounded so... so--

Jack showing up with flowers and a pint of his favorite ice cream didn’t help.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jack says it quietly, though in no capacity shy or withdrawn. “I got worried for a minute when you didn’t show up. Been looking all over town for you, y’know.”

“You could’ve… called.” He glances to the ‘phone’ he has, little more than rubble at this point. Screen shattered, battery practically oozing. “ _ Right. _ ”

“Yeah.” Jack sits down on the visitor’s chair, gonna put the flowers down - even with a card that says “get well soon! - J” though Rhys knows that’s not his handwriting, it’s much too neat - on the chair next to him, and hold out the ice cream. “Peace offering?”

Rhys looks at it with a calculating glare before he snatches it. Well, takes it out of Jack’s hand, still nursing a fractured arm. He’ll crack it open, sitting up in bed and crossing his legs under himself so that he can shove it in the crook of his knee, using that as leverage to scoop out the ice cream near the edges. Slightly melted - the best part.

“I was a dickhead,” Jack says after a minute. He hasn’t pulled out his phone, which is a miracle. Always moving, always needing stimulation, but Rhys watches him, eyebrows furrowed a little. 

“Which instance are we talking about?” Rhys supplies, and will smile a little when Jack grunts. It feels good to fall back into the back-and-forth they’d grown used to after the past few months.

“I was drunk. I said a bunch of shit I didn’t mean - o-or, shouldn’t have said. It’s not that I didn’t mean it, but you’re…” he’ll trail off.

“Too young for you?” Rhys says with another little smile. The ice cream is definitely helping his mood. Yeah, that’s it. Ice cream. Not talking this out. Getting Jack to admit he was wrong.  _ Ice cream. _

“ _ Exactly. _ ” Jack points at him and leans back in his chair - taking up space by spreading his knees, though one of them jiggles nervously. “I’m 48, Rhys. I’m old enough to be your dad.”

“Hey, I didn’t come onto you,” Rhys cocks his head, one of those  _ I know, we been knew, _ gestures, and goes back to his ice cream.

“It’s also a bad idea to be in a  _ relationship _ \--” Jack starts, but Rhys holds up his spoon, silencing him - when did he give this kid so much power?

“I--” he smacks his lips around the ice cream in his mouth, swallows, and looks at him. The look on his face is stern, and almost angry. Whatever good mood he  _ had _ started to garnish disappearing like blowing out a candle. “I  _ never  _ said anything about a relationship, or doing anything with you. I-I get that I’m  _ legal  _ and stuff, but I’m also…” he’ll pick up his web slinger off the side table, waving it around, making a point.  _ I’m Spider-Man. _ “You know? I have college, and I work for you,  _ and _ I do this on the side. I’m not about to stick more cogs in a machine that’s barely working.”

… Rhys is such a smart kid.

“So, e-even if I were-- y’know, if it was more than just infatuation, and that’s what it  _ is, _ you’re my  _ hero, _ of course I’m going to love you in some capacity, I don’t  _ want _ that.” Rhys is waving around the spoon a little, talking with his hands. He’s catching more of Jack’s traits than he knows. “I don’t want a boyfriend right now. I don’t want--” he’ll wave to Jack, “ _ you. _ Not like that. I want to maintain what we have, because… that’s what works.”

Jack smiles at him after a moment before he snatches the spoon out of his hand, making Rhys balk at him. “Give me a bite.”

Rhys waits for a moment, still kind of recovering from the emotional whiplash of the turn in conversation. He picks up the ice cream container and holds it away from Jack, getting the memo. Conversation over - for now. “ _ Ew! _ No, you’re-- you’re gonna infect me with your  _ old _ germs!”

“You shut your goddamn mouth, I bought this.”

“For  _ me! _ ”

“ _ For me, _ ” Jack mocks in a nasally tone. “Shush. You get to be smart with your feelings, I’ll drown mine in ice cream.”

“ _ My _ ice cream--  _ Jack! _ ”

At least it’s better than drinking.

 

\--

 

Finals are harder when he has to do them in the slow, nerve-biting silence of the hospital,  _ and _ with one arm. Rhys can’t type nearly as fast as he wants to, and it makes him want to claw his eyes out. 

Jack said he’d be back with a prototype, but even plastic spoons taped to a LEGO servo would work better at this point than having no arm at all. He’s grown used to the privilege, and going without it is hell.

 

\--

 

It’s months later when Rhys gets his arm fixed, attached (with the help from Jack) and new, and  _ shiny. _ A chrome finish that leaves him looking sleek. He’ll admit, he does appreciate the step up from the plastic, though there’s something much less authentic in its presentation now; Rhys almost misses the dinky way it looked like some college nerd’s basement project.

Jack definitely likes this one more. The lingering touches on his shoulder, rolling up his sleeves specifically so that he can watch the thing shift and move. It’s _sleek._ _And_ it’s Stark Industries. If _that_ doesn’t give him reason enough to give him a _wicked_ pride-boner, what else would?

… other than the fact that his little protégé here was the one who designed the whole thing. Stark Industries just  _ built _ the thing - no, no,  _ Jack _ built the thing. Rhys was the one who came up with the idea of interlocking plates, wires running like muscle fibers, a long, encased motor in both the bicep and the forearm that would mean  _ double _ the power.

He cracked it open like a lobster tail the first time Rhys got to play with it, and within a week, they were mounting it on his shoulder. It was as intimate as it was exciting, hooking up wires and watching as Rhys broke out in a small sweat as he was hefting things up over his head, practicing with the thing, getting a feel for it, tweaking it, and doing it all over again.

Jack watched with a bit of awe, adoration in his eyes, a whiskey in his hand as he toasted with Rhys - sparkling grape juice in his cup - over a job well done. This kid was something special.

 

\--

 

“Come to the Gala with me,” Jack says.

“Isn’t it like, tomorrow?” Rhys pulls his head back from the soldering iron he’s messing with, rigging together a quick fix for one of his web slinging devices, looking at him for an instant before he’s going back into it. He’s been ‘on leave’ since his arm wasn’t in superhero-ing condition, but he’s itching to get back into the spotlight. “I don’t have anything to wear, Jack.”

“I’ll get you something,” Jack says. “Please?”

“It’s not gonna be fun,” he says. “I’m just a kid, remember? I can’t drink my anxiety away, as much as I’d like to.”

Jack opens his mouth to respond, but finds himself at a lack for excuses this time. Instead, he just gets a little closer. “ _ Pleaaase? _ ”

“No,” Rhys holds his breath. Not only because Jack has been wearing the cologne he knows Rhys likes -  _ what _ had happened to the conversation in the hospital, he wonders, where Jack was almost begging  _ not _ to be in a relationship with him? - but not breathing makes his hands less shaky, and he needs this circuit to work.

“Rhys,” Jack sounds like he ran a mile with the force of the exasperation coming out of him. “Please. I’m beggin’ ya.”

… alright, circuit done. He’ll set the soldering iron down on its stand, turning to look at Jack with a neutral, though firm gaze. “Why? Do you want me to be some kind of arm candy? Entertainment?”

“What?  _ No! _ ” Jack stands tall, putting his hands on his hips.

“That’s a yes,” Rhys replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going, Jack. Not unless you can give me a good reason why I should go - you could’ve made up a  _ laundry _ list of people that I’d like to see, or meet, or get connections with. Get business cards. See friends. Awesome cocktail weenies!” 

He’s handing out better excuses than  _ denial _ left and right, and Jack feels a frown tug at his mouth.

“But I don’t care if you  _ pay _ me to go. I’m  _ not _ your boyfriend, and I’m not going to dance for you when someone can’t keep you off your phone for ten minutes trying to talk shop with you.” Rhys stands up, putting his metal hand on Jack’s chest and gently pushing him a step back. “Are we clear?”

“Jesus Christ, I love when you’re stern with me.”

“ _ Jack. _ ” Rhys grits his teeth.

“Crystal, baby.”

 

\--

 

He goes anyway, because he has nothing better to do, and Jack put a suit - a really, really nice one that Rhys didn’t  _ want _ to ask the price tag on the thing - in the lab in plain sight. When he comes out, carefully making sure not to scuff his shoes (his only nice pair from his dad, thank goodness they have similar shoe sizes now that Rhys is older), he calls Jack.

“Stark,” Jack answers, curtly. There’s a lot of background noise, which means he’s at the Gala already.

“Hey,” Rhys murmurs into his phone. The lab’s dark, everything is so pretty in here. Sparkly.

“Rhys!” Jack’s tone changes, 180 shift from the professional tone before. “Hey, baby girl. What’s up? Need something?”

That goddamn nickname. Another shiver slips up Rhys’ spine, not unlike some kind of Spidey-sense tingle. A looming  _ something _ in the distance. This is a bad idea.

“I, ah, I need a ride to the Gala. I’d  _ swing _ by, but I don’t wanna ruin my hair. I spent a minute on it.”

He can almost hear Jack’s grin. “Sure thing. I’ll send someone to the tower to come get’cha. Did you see your present?”

“The suit I didn’t ask for?” Rhys does smile at that. “Yeah, Jack. Wearing it now.”

“And the tie?”

“Yes, the tie, too.” Rhys smooths his hand over the yellow silk, and he knows Jack has a matching pocket square. It’s a possessive symbol,  _ Stark Property. _ Rhys is almost shaking. This is a bad idea, a really, really bad idea--

“Perfect,” Jack whispers. “See you soon. I’ll send my driver.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Rhys hums, and hangs up with a small sigh. 

Dumb.  _ Dumb _ Rhys.

 

\--

 

“Rhysie!” Jack is waiting by the doors, and he grins wide, almost like a predator. Events like these turn Jack into what he used to be - corporate, soul-sucking, and number-crunching. He had no use for progress if it meant people weren’t buying his products. Becoming Iron Man changed that, at least most the time.

Rhys gets tangled up in a hug, but he doesn’t smell like alcohol. “Have you been drinking?”

“Around these freaks?” Jack nods back towards the museum doors. “Not a drop. They’d drug me, steal my wallet  _ and _ my heart.” He taps on the glow of the Arc Reactor through the black of his shirt. “They’re  _ sharks _ , Rhysie. Not a drop around these folks. Now--” he does seem enthusiastic, which is something slightly new and pleasant Rhys hasn’t seen in a while. “I want you to meet someone.”

He’s guided through the doors, security lets him through with no issue with Jack’s hand between his shoulder blades, his own version of a VIP badge, and lead through a crowd of black-and-white-and-yellow-clad strangers with more money than he’s ever seen before.

He meets with a woman with cropped, flipping hair and a stern expression, and the name  _ Athena _ fits her well. Her gaze is suited for war, courage. A strong woman,  _ daring _ you to threaten her. Jack introduces them, and she seems surprised for a moment.

“This is Rhys?” she asks. “He’s… so young.”

“Well, we can’t hog all the knowledge to ourselves, can we?” Jack says. He grips Rhys’ shoulder in a way that could only be described as  _ fatherly, _ and Rhys doesn’t know if he should be referring to Jack as  _ Jack _ or  _ Mr. Stark. _

But he doesn’t have to refer to him at all, as he’s reaching out with a smile, his right hand making a soft whir as he offers it. “Rhys Strongford. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Athena.”

God, her grip must be like a vice. His prosthetic creaks under her hold, the plastics and wires making him sympathetically ache, but she’s just like Jack in their first meeting in Rhys’ highschool, looking at his hand like it’s the strangest thing in the world.

“ _ You _ made this?” she asks, sounding a bit dumbfounded. 

“Ah,” Rhys can already feel a bead of sweat forming on his brow, but he has this monologue down. “Yes, ma’am. Most of it, at least. Mr…” he glances to Jack for a moment, not getting any kind of disapproval, “Mr. Stark helped with the shell, but the internal work was all me. The programming took the longest part, if I’m to be honest.”

“Doesn’t it always,” Jack huffs. Athena still looks extremely impressed. 

“Lots of fiddling, I’m sure,” Athena says. “Tell me about it - this can’t be the first model, can it?”

After a few moments of chatting, she slips Rhys her business card - a sleek, circular thing that he puts in his pocket after looking at; she’s a SHIELD operative. Or, at least, what’s left of SHIELD.

 

\--

 

Yeah. Rhys is the fucking dumbest, he concludes. 

The night is decidedly fruitful; Jack introduced him to multiple big-wigs, not just Ms. Athena and her wife Janey Springs, that Rhys had idolized and done research on, learning about their processes, getting insight on his prosthetic - which all of them, and he means  _ all  _ of them, adored and asked so many questions about - and what improvements he might make on it.

On the ride home, Rhys was exhausted. So many people, so much talking. Jack was a warm, comfortable presence - which in hindsight, looking at it from the perspective of Rhys just months ago (almost a year? No, it hadn’t gone that fast, had it?), was something of a dream. Being so close to  _ the _ Jack Stark.

Jack guides him up into the penthouse suite, pouring him a glass of water and taking his jacket for him. They sit on the couch, the lights still off, until Jack gets closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m gonna kiss you,” Jack says, and Rhys’ heart swells, putting his hand to Jack’s collarbone to stop him. The touch is light, but insistent, and Jack stops like he put a cinderblock on his chest instead.

He doesn’t know how to feel about this. Rhys glances up, and Jack’s eyes are curious, squinting as if trying to assess a problem in code he hadn’t quite found. All of this is a math problem, yet to be cracked. Rhys can’t say he’s angry, because he knows he comes at these situations like that, too.

Rhys sets the water down on the coffee table, clearing his throat even if his face betrays his steady voice, his  _ ears _ flushed with embarrassment, nerves.

“I’m in control,” he says, low. The seriousness in his tone is a whetstone to Jack’s focus, sharpening it to just him; the whole world falls away.

“Anything,” Jack murmurs. Even in the dark, with the whir of electricity and the ventilation unit kicking on, it seems like their voices are so loud. Maybe Jack’s nervous, too, but he’s not about to say that he has  _ butterflies _ over some  _ stupid kid. _

The stupid,  _ brilliant _ kid, with legs in black suit pants that are still, somehow, too short for him that show off his alien socks, legs that are finding their way on either side of Jack’s hips, sitting on his  _ goddamn _ lap like-- like--

“You drive me crazy,” Rhys grumbles, and looking at his face, he knows he means the words, but not in the way Jack’s thinking.

Jack waits a moment before grinning. “I think that’s my line, pumpkin.”

 

\--

 

Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid. _ Rhys knows better. Rhys knows  _ so _ much better-- the man is almost  _ fifty years old, _ he might be his  _ hero, _ his goddamn idol, his mentor, his teacher, his  _ dream guy _ , both in physique and mental capacity, but Rhys is--

\-- _ kissing him, _ slow and careful, his hands cupped on Jack’s shoulders and digging his fingers into the fabric. If his prosthetic is pinching Jack’s shoulder, then he doesn’t say anything, because Jack is holding onto his hips, thumbs placed delicately on the protrusion of his hipbone--  _ superior iliac spine _ , his mind supplies, and he easily shuts that down like stomping on a bug. He’s  _ busy, _ brain.

It only lasts a few seconds before Rhys is pulling back, and Jack chases him, but remembers--  _ Rhys _ is in charge. He lets out a noise similar to a man getting gutted.

It’s obvious Jack wants to take control. The way his fingers tighten slightly, his eyes grow a little dark and his jaw sets. But Rhys appreciates the submission. 

“Good boy,” Rhys murmurs, and Jack  _ growls. _

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?” Rhys says. He’ll sit back, a hand coming up to loosen his own tie. His tone is casual. “‘Cause it makes you hard?”

Jack bites his tongue. “Filthy mouth.”

Rhys pulls the tie out from beneath his collar, tossing it to the side. “What’re you gonna do about it, old man?  _ Fuck _ the filth out of me?”

“I’m gonna  _ spank _ you if you keep language up, Rhys.” Jesus, what a  _ tone. _ Given any other circumstance, Rhys would be blushing - but he already is. And  _ he’s _ in control.

He leans forward, his thumb pressing beneath Jack’s jawbone and pushing back so Jack’s head tilts back against the couch cushion. He leans forward, starting to kiss his skin. “Doubt it,” he snorts. “Not unless I tell you to.”

He’s right. God, Rhys has him wrapped around his pretty little prosthetic finger.

“See?” Rhys says.

Without moving, and with much less venom in it so that Rhys knows he’s joking,  _ please _ don’t leave, he doesn’t want to fuck this up, “You’re a brat.”

“And you  _ fucking  _ love it.”

“ _ Rhys, _ ” Jack huffs disapprovingly, looking down at him with a frown, but he can’t help the way he actually  _ moans _ when Rhys connects their mouths again. The noise is a visceral action he can’t control; his hand drifts up Rhys’ body, cupping his back and pulling him closer. He wants to grab his ass so,  _ so _ bad.

When Rhys’ hands glide to his own, moving them down to his hips, then back, Jack growls low in his throat. He’s a little mind-reader, he has to be. Jack kneads his ass through the slacks, and Rhys is almost shaking with it. 

“Intense?” Jack asks, his voice is softer than he means it to be. 

Rhys nods his head, though he grapples back control after a moment. “Slower,” he mumbles. “Softer.”

Jack’s hands are big on his thighs. The way his palms slide down to the backs of them, fingertips brushing together as he gropes. Warmth seeping through the fabric. Rhys can even feel the heaviness of his rings. “Course,” Jack whispers. “You’re in control.”

Rhys kisses him again as a reward, and Jack appreciates it. It’s a reward he definitely  _ wants. _ He pulls Rhys forward by his hips, sinking back into the couch a little more so that their hips grind together, gritting his teeth at the feeling. 

“What are you thinking, Mr. Stark?” Rhys sounds almost vindictive, and it makes Jack laugh against his mouth.

“Thinking about how pretty you are,” Jack says, honestly. “How nice it’d be if I got to lay you down and show you how  _ Mr. Stark _ treats pretty things like you.”

“What an honest answer,” Rhys sits back, his back arching as he’s looking down at Jack. He’s smiling, though, something not as tight and uncomfortable as Jack was expecting. “Not something I hear from you nearly as often as I’d like,  _ honesty. _ ”

“You’ve got a smart mouth for grinding on my dick, honey,” Jack grins sharply back, and pulls at Rhys’ hips again. The smile wipes from his face when Rhys  _ genuinely _ grinds his hips down, eyes fluttering shut.

“What happened to  _ too young for you _ ?” Rhys asks. “You’re almost thirty years older than me, Jack. How does that make you feel?”

“Old,” Jack breathes. He looks up at him. “If I’m gonna be real honest,  _ pervy. _ ”

“You should,”  Rhys breathes. But he’s reaching down, unbuttoning Jack’s shirt. “You’re a filthy old man, taking advantage of my desires.”

“A-alright, y-you’re not-- you’re not  _ illegal, _ c’mon now--” Jack is manhandling him closer, starting to tear at Rhys’ clothes, too. But he’s quickly caught by two sticky webs, pinning his hands to his own couch, and he’s a little startled when he looks up at Rhys. 

The younger man’s eyes are dark and he’s flushed a deep pink. Jack smiles, wicked.

“You’re getting off on this, too,” Jack rumbles.

“You’re an asshole,” Rhys flicks him on the chin, and Jack just tilts his head back with a laugh.

“Oh, baby girl, I knew you’d be fun.”

 

\--

 

“Wanna put my hands on you,” Jack grumbles, though he’s watching Rhys like a predator as the younger man gets down on his knees between Jack’s spread thighs. 

“No,” Rhys says, easily. He tugs Jack’s slacks down, holding his breath as he slides his hand along the bulge in Jack’s underwear. “I’m in--”

“ _ You’re in control, _ I-I get it,” Jack cuts him off with a groan and pushes his hips forward. “C’mon, sweetheart, y-you know I’m impatient.”

“More reason to make you wait, in my opinion,” Rhys mumbles to himself, but he has to admit that he’s pretty desperate for it, as well. Feeling the weight of Jack’s dick against his palm, he’s shuffling forward and looking up at Jack, feeling like a wilting flower beneath such a powerful gaze. 

He doesn’t hesitate, even though he really should, to pull down the front of Jack’s underwear. 

“What, no comment on the shorts, kiddo?” Jack grins, and Rhys isn’t paying attention. Jack’s dick is, for lack of a better word,  _ hefty. _ It’s what he saw in porn videos more often than not, though maybe not as picture-perfect. It’s got thick veins that run up the bottom of it, some razor burn around the shaft that was telling of a quick ‘manscaping’ job (probably done in the shower, which makes Rhys’ face turn beet red). A  _ fat _ head, a nice taper--

“Huh,” Rhys murmurs, and Jack’s smile turns down a little.

“What? You don’t like it?” Jack asks.

“This is my first--” Rhys clears his throat. “This is, this is the first time I’ve, uh.”

“ _ Oh? _ ”

Rhys looks up at Jack, who’s a bit flushed himself. In his periphery, Jack’s dick twitches. From the eye contact, or the fact that this is Rhys’  _ first, _ Rhys can only guess, but he has a feeling it might be a hard mix of the two.

“Jesus,” Jack murmurs. “You really are young, huh?”

Don’t let it get to your head, Rhys, he’s getting off on it just as much as you are. You can spin this in your favor.

“Yeah,” Rhys breathes. He shuffles closer on his knees, and he wraps his fingers around the base of Jack’s dick. “But I think you like that about me.”

“I like a lot of things about you, Rhysie,” Jack rumbles. “I’d like you more if you stopped talking.”

A fair assessment, Rhys thinks, and won’t let that get to him, either. He strokes Jack carefully, watching and feeling the length in his hand shift and move with his own movements, and it gets him to shiver. Both of them, he realizes after a moment. 

Jack hooks a leg around Rhys’ body, his heel digging into his back and tugging him closer. Eyes heavy, dark. Wanting. That same, soul-sucking,  _ greedy _ creep from before he got his fancy, glowing, robotic heart.

Rhys looks up at him with a frown, and slows down, much to Jack’s displeasure, but it doesn’t take long for Jack to realize he’s being forward in some fashion or another. He’ll clear his throat, foot placing itself on the ground again. He doesn’t apologize, but the action in itself is apology enough in Rhys’ books - or at least, in Rhys’ experience with Jack.

The first taste is strange, and Rhys nearly crosses his eyes to keep his eyes on Jack’s dick. It’s slightly salty, and tastes like underwear a little bit - the musk of skin and fabric softener - but overall, a pleasant experience. 

Jack groans, a low noise through his nose as he tilts his head back, closing his eyes. When Rhys slides his lips around the head of his cock, Jack smiles to himself. “Tha’sit, baby girl…”

Rhys’ nylon spiderwebs don’t hold Jack for long, he’s able to worm himself out of the hold soon enough so that he can gently touch Rhys’ cheek, who’s now concentrated on his task. He startles at the touch, eyes glancing to either side where the web is still stuck to the fabric of the couch, but Jack smiles at him reassuringly. 

“Your jaw’s gonna ache before I’m through with you, baby,” he says. His fingers cup the bottom of his jaw, shifting slightly. “Let your mouth hang open with it. Don’t open your mouth on purpose, you’ll wear yourself out faster.”

Rhys’ eyebrows furrow slightly, like h.e doesn’t  _ want _ to be told how to do this-- how to  _ blow a guy. _ But he follows directions with ease, and the next bob of his head has Jack  _ keening, _ “ _ There, _ y-yeah… such a quick learner, princess, blows my frickin’ mind…”

With Jack’s thumb gently stroking his cheek, Rhys can’t help but feel a swell of pride in his heart. And to be honest, his slacks. He shivers slightly as he pulls away entirely, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, accidentally smearing the head of Jack’s cock on his cheek. He catches his breath for a few seconds before gently kissing down the shaft, getting a purr in return.

Jack runs a hand through his hair, cupping the back of his head, and pulls him closer.

Rhys gets the picture. It’s supposed to be fast, but it’s also a learning experience. He pushes himself up onto his knees a little more, leaning over Jack’s lap and putting his artificial hand on Jack’s hip to hold him still, starting to get into a rhythm.

… does he like sucking dick? He’s certainly enjoying the noises coming out of Jack’s mouth, little grunts and pants, his feet shuffling on the solid ground like he’s running an imaginary marathon. He’s making Jack feel this way. That’s a powerful feeling if he’s ever known one.

The feeling is fortified in his chest when Jack cums, legs opening wider than they were before, petting Rhys’ cheek with his thumb as his cock twitches, emptying his load into Rhys’ mouth. 

He moves to get up - it doesn’t taste good, he wants to spit it out - but Jack catches him by the jaw and pulls him in, Rhys catching himself on Jack’s thighs to keep him from faceplanting into him.

“Swallow it,” Jack says. It’s not a request.

Unbeknownst to Rhys  _ why, _ but he does. When Jack hooks his thumb into Rhys’ mouth to look inside, it feels more like a quality inspection on his performance, though the look in Jack’s eyes when he looks up again is telling: he was more than satisfactory.

 

\--

 

Jack eats his ass out, not ashamed of the way he’s  _ really _ into it. Rhys squirms at the beard burn on his thighs after, with his legs wrapped around Jack’s head as Jack shows him how good of a blowjob one can  _ give, _ as a token of appreciation for Rhys’ blowjob cherry; he swallows Rhys’ load greedily and without question.

“You’re disgusting,” Rhys is panting. “Filthy. A cradle-robbing monster.”

Jack bites the inside of his thigh with a growl, and Rhys laughs breathlessly when he kisses the mark he leaves.

“I’m going to web you to the wall if you keep doing that.”

“Bet you can’t, your little gadgets are three floors up.” Jack glances up at him, eyes nearly glowing with mirth as he’s peering around Rhys’ cock, already starting to perk up again at the attention.

“Last time we had a bet, you  _ lost, _ ” Rhys says.

“Oh, did I?” Jack kisses up to Rhys’ hipbone - that same superior iliac spine Rhys’ brain piped up - and noses along his stomach, making the muscles there jump. “I think you have  _ lost _ and  _ gained total spankbank material knowing you can lift me in the air _ confused, Rhysie.”

“ _ Disgusting, _ ” Rhys reiterates, propping himself up on his elbows. “ _ Filthy. _ ”

Jack laughs, the vibrations sending tingles up Rhys’ skin. “You haven’t the slightest idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just some fucking filthy smut for ya

Rhys picks Jack up with ease. It’s kind of… ridiculous, how light the bigger man feels - taller, wider, heavier,  _ denser _ , literally bigger in every way - thanks to his powers. But it’s easy. And the way Jack is  _ breathless _ is definitely worth it. 

The glow of the room is moody, at best; a lamp on in the corner that only illuminates in a soft yellow tone. It makes Jack’s features seem softer than they are, though the hard blues of the city lights outside make up for that. Rhys is just as breathless, he realizes, but probably not for the same reasons. He’s caught off guard with how  _ pretty _ Jack is.

“What?” Jack murmurs, his fingers digging into Rhys’ shoulders. “You’re lookin’ at me funny.”

The scar over his face is so fitting. A grisly reminder that he was not the man he used to be, a perfect veneer, a company personified. Now he’s just… Jack.

Rhys leans forward and kisses him again, squeezing Jack’s thighs in his palms as he pins their hips together, grinding and making Jack startle out a moan, his expression contorting into something more furrowed, but it makes Rhys dig deeper, grind harder, grip firmer, kiss sloppier. Jack seems to appreciate it.

“Desperate,” he whispers with a little smile. “You’re friggin’ desperate for me, huh? You want your pretty little cock in me, Rhys?”

“ _ Jack, _ ” Rhys murmurs back. He leans in and kisses at his throat, nipping and biting, leaving a mark on his collarbone. “Please?”

Jack hums, fingers sliding through his hair. “Please what, pumpkin? You your words.”

“I-I-- I want to fuck you, Jack. Please, Mr. Stark?” Rhys’ hips grind up with a soft moan. His dick rubs against Jack’s skin, and it’s just… perfect.

“You already got me in the position, baby, you just gotta prep--”

Rhys’ right hand leaves Jack’s leg, keeping him up carefully with his hips against the wall, and shoots out a web from synthetic arm. Jack brought out the lube already, something to slick the way of his palm over Rhys’ cock - a luxurious experience that Rhys doubts he’ll ever go back to spit-slick handjobs. He pulls the lube back into his palm and looks up at him with a smirk.

Jack looks shocked. Pleasantly so.

“Guess you could’a webbed me to the wall, huh?” he says with a smile, leaning closer to kiss the corner of his lips.

“Told you you’d lose that bet, old man.”

It takes a few minutes, one leg now hitched over Rhys’ shoulder, supporting him easily with one hand and his body against the wall, but Rhys has three fingers sliding in and out of Jack, listening to his instructions. Jack was still floored with how fucking smart he was, how quick he learned.

“S’it, now _ up _ ... ah--  _ ah, _ yeah, baby girl--” Jack arches his back as much as he can, his shoulder blades touching the wall alone as Rhys’ fingers slide over his prostate, getting him to shake. “Jesus  _ fuck, _ I-I could cum from that alone, y’know that?”

Oh, what a delicious thought. It makes Rhys gasp, and his fingers still for a moment. He’s so hard, pink up to the tips of his ears as he’s looking down between Jack’s legs. “Yeah?” he asks, quiet as a mouse.

Jack almost spits. “Don’t get  _ timid  _ on me now, Rhysie, keep goin’ before I do it myself.”

Ah. Jack-speak for  _ don’t stop. _

He’ll lean forward, kissing at Jack’s chest and collarbone as he curls his fingers again, getting Jack’s hips to jump with a hiss. “ _ Fuck, _ Rhys--”

“I-I like it when you say my name,” he says. A little surge of confidence, or maybe a blurt, unable to put a filter in front of his thoughts.

“W-well, prepare for me to say it-- a  _ lot, _ sweetheart.” Jack rocks his hips down. “ _ Alright, _ all-fucking-right, we’re-- good,  _ come on. _ ”

Rhys will open his mouth, about to say something about  _ protection _ before Jack is already reaching down, behind himself, so he can run his fingers along Rhys’ cock, getting him to shudder. All thoughts of a condom flutter out of his head as he easily manhandles Jack back against the wall, hips together again. Jack gets the wind knocked out of him, and his eyes roll back for a second.

“I like it when you call me baby girl,” Rhys says -  _ babbles, _ really, coming out in a rush. “I like it when you-- touch me.”

Jack will squirm against the wall with an uncomfortable grimace. “S’great, baby--  _ baby girl _ ,” so he  _ does _ listen, “I need you inside my ass like, yesterday.”

Rhys pulls him down against his thighs, so that Jack slides down the wall a little, before he’s reaching below and wrapping his hand around his own cock, starting to carefully slide the head along Jack’s skin. The slick feeling of his hole makes Rhys shiver, and he’ll lean forward again, pressing his forehead to Jack’s chest and pushing--

“ _ Fuck--! _ ” Jack hisses. Gravity doesn’t help being  _ gentle, _ even if Rhys can lift him like nothing - God, and isn’t that hot - but it’s just what Jack wants. He can…  _ feel _ everything. His heart hammering in his chest, the zips of what feels like electricity up his skin, making his cock twitch and goosebumps pimple along his arms. It’s  _ good. _ Fuck, if he could admit to himself, it’s  _ perfect. _

Patience always makes this fruit  _ sweeter. _ And what better than a sweet little twink like this--

“Sh-shit,” Rhys murmurs. He kisses the hollow of Jack’s throat wetly, biting down on his collar. “ _ Shit, _ Jack, feels...”

“ _ Yeah, _ ” Jack wraps his arms around Rhys’ shoulders with a huff. “Yeah, c’mon, baby girl, let’s  _ go _ . Fuck me, Rhys, come on--”

When Rhys does move, it’s anything but  _ fucking. _ It’s slow, and passionate, even if it’s deep and making both of them sweat. Jack’s hair stands on end at the back of his neck when Rhys pulls him off the wall, taking a half-step back. He’s, uh,  _ totally not _ scared for a quarter of a second, thinking Rhys will drop him, but he moves his hands to Jack’s hips and ass, starting to  _ bounce _ him--

“H-how-- the  _ fuck _ are--  _ Rhys! _ Hhah..!” Jack reaches back and slaps his hand against the wall, leaning with it so that his shoulders are against the wall again. The angle is perfect. Oh,  _ god _ oh god oh  _ god _ it’s so  _ fucking good-- _ “Sh-shit,  _ fuck, Rhys-- _ ”

Rhys looks concentrated, eyebrows furrowed and really just going for it. A bead of sweat drips down his forehead, Jack rolling his hips down into Rhys’ thrusts, and it’s so much, it’s  _ too _ much--

“J-Jah…” Rhys’ voice trails off in a whimper, he shivers, and pitches forward with his release. He cums hard, and Jack can feel it inside of him. The way Rhys’ cock twitches, how it pulses at the base. Christ, is he drooling? He can’t be, that might be a dangerous stroke to Jack’s ego.

Jack takes his own cock in his hand, stroking quickly before he’s cumming, too, jerking his hips up into his fist. Rhys pulls him closer, as if to stop him from getting away - possessive, much? Or is he that dirty, that he wants to keep his limp dick in Jack’s ass - before they’re both slowly coming down to the ground, Jack sitting heavily in Rhys’ lap, still leaned back against the wall.

Slowly, Rhys leans up and kisses him again, his hands running along Jack’s thighs. It’s calming, soothing. Jack wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in a little more and nosing against Rhys’ cheek.

“You fuck like a champion, kiddo,” Jack sounds breathless, though he sounds far more composed than he thought he would. “You sure this is your first time?”

Rhys nips Jack’s lips, eyebrows furrowed. “ _ Yes, _ ” he says, stubborn. “Pretty certain. Like, ninety-nine percent.”

Jack quirks an eyebrow, head tilting back so he can look down at Rhys. “What about that one percent?”

“I dunno, Jack, I’ve fallen asleep here plenty of times. I don’t know what you like to do to me--”

“ _ Whoa! _ ” Jack laughs this time, though he’ll grab Rhys’ face in one hand, fingers and thumb catching him at the cheeks. “You accusin’ me of something,  _ baby girl? _ ”

Oh, he can feel the way Rhys twitches inside of him at the nickname, and it stirs something gross in Jack’s gut. Something  _ greedy _ .

Rhys looks up at him, eyes a little dark with lust. He turns his head, catching Jack’s thumb in his mouth and swirling his tongue around the digit before he pulls off with a pop. His voice is low as he nuzzles Jack’s palm. 

“Of course not, Mr. Stark. I know you only have  _ pure intentions. _ ”


End file.
